A Passion for Fashion on Pathetic Funds

Whaaaat? A blog post on a Tuesday? Perish the thought! That means that I actually rolled out of bed and did something productive with my life! Gasp! Shock and awe! 

As shocking as it may seem, yes, I am indeed here on a Tuesday making a blog post. I have some things I would like to complain about and unload onto the willing masses.

I have a passion for passion! On very, very pathetic funds, and when I say pathetic, I use that term very loosely. What I literally mean is next to no funds. I'm a college student and I live in a small town where for the most part you're either in one of the following situations, you:

A) are stuck in a seemingly perpetual loop of being in college FOREVER

B) become a nurse

C) become a nurse

D) become a nurse

E) get stuck in the incredibly soul-sucking worm hole that is food services 

F) actually manage to somehow find a decent job, most of the time through happenstance

G) collect SSI though there may, or may NOT actually be something "wrong" with you or...

H) (my personal case) NO ONE WILL HIRE YOU!!!!

If I were my own country, this would by my flag. Fat Bastard in all his glory would hang high from every flag post my nation over. This is the literal story of my freaking life. From fast food joints, to the Goodwill, to Kroger, you name it; they have declined me. I was recently turned down for a job because, get this; I was too close with two of their employees. Never mind the fact that those two employees are amazing friends and for most jobs would be FANTASTIC references, but they didn't want their co-workers to be too chummy. Sorry, I thought friendship, teamwork, communication, and comradery were supposed to be healthy and beneficial in the workplace; my bad, bruh. The constant slue of rejections has made me one tough cookie, I'll admit. However, that doesn't change the fact that it sucks beyond anything that I could ever describe. It's also highly depressing...

Especially for a person like me who loves clothes..... it's like the universe is legitimately and purposefully toying with me and treating my life as if it were some kind of eternal, cosmic joke. Why?....No, seriously....Why? 

I get a student loan refund check....that's the extent of my meager "income" which isn't even income, it's money that I'm going to be paying back for the rest of my life. And sure, the overall hope is to go to college, get a good job, and pay all of it back in a timely manner. But, in case you didn't notice, life is the biggest a**hole on the planet who just so happens to have a never ending case of "The Mondays." So, as you can imagine, for everyone, that plan doesn't usually go as followed. 

The reason for this rant is all Chastity Garner's fault. Garner Style. Curvy Con co-creator, and one of my all time favorite, bada** fashion bloggers recently did a collaboration with Rebdolls, a plus clothing company that literally has me drooling into my Samsung Galaxy S3 about once a week. 

  

 

 

Again....I pose the question: why? Why must I be so broke? Why must my wallet be so incredible empty, nothing rattling around but bus fare, yet my eye for clothing draws me to some of the most expensive, gorgeous, drool-worthy clothing that I can find. It just isn't fare. I feel like my brain and wallet need to catch up to one another. Preferably, my wallet catching up with my brain. 

End Rant. 

You can shop for this collection here. You can also follow Chastity here, here, and here.

Also, don't forget that you can like the blog's Facebook page here and catch lots of content that doesn't wind up on the blog!

Thanks for reading XOXO

I know you are but what am I?

We've all heard this cliched adage; whether we have used it ourselves or have seen it in at least one scene of every TV show ever, we have all heard it. It's used as a comeback for an insult. Someone calls you ugly? "I know you are but what am I?" Someone calls you annoying? "I know you are but what am I?" But how about we take a more adult, a more real stance on this age old sentence.

"I know you are but what am I?"

This sentence can speak so heavily on the character of a person. I was scrolling through Facebook the other night and I read a post by the lovely, Aarti Oliva from Curves Become Her. This is the post here. This post broke my heart. She spoke about how a person that is -astonishingly- the same race as her, who went out of their way to demean her due to her weight over social media.

Stuff like that breaks my heart and makes me want to go on a "Hulk Smash" rampage at the same time.

No. He did not bother to find out.
He did not care for who I was. What my life has been like. Where I am with my life right now. Why I do what I do.

All he and so many other fat hating eejits saw was an unacceptable body size. An unattractive shape. That scares them because I have made peace with myself. If they can't accept me, how am I accepting myself?

Even if it was "just over social media" Aarti Oliva, a beautiful woman who has struggled, like many of us, with her body acceptance stood up for herself. My heart broke for her pain but my soul beamed with pride for her bravery and courage to in some way take a stand. It made me think of my own life experiences over the years. It made me think of all the times that I had been demeaned or belittled by people, made to feel small and how I never said a word. One instance in particular still stays with me to this day.

I was a senior in high school. Now, to set the scene; I am overweight, asthmatic, wearing glasses that should have been replaced years ago, and I go to a school where a dress code was enforced. This of course meant that my uniform consisted of baggy, ill-fitting colored shirts and tent-esque stretch pants from K-mart. I was often ridiculed and mocked, I was often told that I looked like a teacher and was openly shamed for it. This one day in particular however, my bullying turned physical, it turned into sexual harassment. 

At my school, fights were a very common thing. So common that campus wide "lock outs" were instated. For those of you that don't know: a lockout is when any student caught outside of their classroom after the tardy bell rings is "locked out" of the class room and are immediately sent to the small school leaders (I'll explain that in a moment) and are reprimanded in some way. This punishment usually included either B.I.C (in school suspension), detention, or suspension. My school, which consisted of three usable floors was divided into three "small schools" meaning that each floor of the school was ran by different people and focused on a different job prospect. One day, due to the issue with fights breaking out during the time where students commuted from the first floor to their respective floors after lunch, all the small school leaders decided that they were going to herd students in one direction.

Yes, you heard me correctly. Gone was the students freedom to roam the halls as they pleased, we were herded like cattle up the stairs on the far left of the building, our teachers standing like obedient and observant dogs making sure one of the flock doesn't run off. It was horrible. It always didn't stop bad things from happening in the hallways. If anything the cramped congestion made things worse. On this day, I had stopped on the second floor because -thankfully!- my best friend's locker was near the stairs they herded us toward. I had to grab a text book from her locker because I had forgotten mine that day. It was sitting on the floor of the locker and I bent over to pick it up and....

WHAMM!!!

My head smashes into the back of the locker because some boy smacked me on the butt so hard I tipped over. My butt stung and I immediately felt this insane sense of vulnerability that I didn't even have the day that I lost my virginity. I heard this insane cackle worse than Ed from The Lion King and turned to see the back of this boy who was running like a bat out of hell through the crowd. I'll never forget the crisp color of his blue polo shirt, or the way his dusty braids seemed to stand out among a sea of raven colored hair. A fight broke out seconds after he'd done it and I remember standing their, frozen, as pandemonium broke out around me. I felt vandalized. 

Ordinarily, I wouldn't have said something, I would have hung my head low, kept walking and just tried to forget it. But that was the problem, I couldn't forget it. I couldn't let something like this go this time. I felt so much fear and shame in my heart that I felt as if I would explode. So, with my book clutched to my chest, I marched straight to my small school leaders and told them what happened. I was shaking like a leaf, to the point where they allowed me to stay in the office my entire fifth period. They got all the details from me that they could and then sent me on my way. They assured me that they would find who did this to me and I believed them. My heart was still wrapped tightly in a blanket of fear, but I believed them.

I spent the next three days walking the hallways in a state of constant fear and panic. I didn't know if this boy would hit me again. I didn't know if he would threaten me not to say anything. I didn't know what could happen, so the uncertainty drove me insane. Finally, I got called to the office and I was told that they found the boy who did it on the school's security cameras. I felt so relieved, I felt vindicated. Only to have that small moment of triumph ripped out from underneath me. 

"He's frequently in trouble," I was told. So they slapped him on the wrist. He got three days suspension. My parents weren't called. His mom was called to come get him but she never said anything to me, never saw me, never tried to force him to apologize or apologize for his actions. Their decision was made and final. So, I hung my head, nodded and returned to class. It took my small school leaders three days to find him and by the following Tuesday, he was back roaming the halls again. I could have passed that boy every day for the rest of my year there and never known it. But that wasn't the point. That didn't take away the fear that I felt, wondering if it would happen again, knowing that he would just get away easy. It didn't take away the fact that someone had touched me in a way that made me immensely uncomfortable and afraid, and I felt like no one cared, that no one was on my side. 

That boy saw a fat girl with a fat bottom, bent over, a** up, and what he saw was an easy target. He saw an easy target and he took advantage. He didn't care to know anything about me, just that he could abuse me in any way that he felt like. He did it, he got away with it -in my eyes at least- and he probably did it again to someone else, and got another slap on the wrist. I have held so much anger and hurt around because of this situation. Feelings that I didn't even know I had until Aarti Olivia wrote the words that I wish that I had the courage to say back then:

I will not shrink in oblivion. There is much work to be done. More people to reach out to and empower. More heading to process.

She was absolutely right, and this is why we need the body positive movement, so that young girls and women, and young men and guys the world over don't wind up feeling the way that I felt that day. I will not shrink into the oblivion for you. You have no power over my right to love my body the way that it is, was, and will be. So you can hate me, say that I promote an unhealthy life style by trying to get people to love themselves at any size, you can call me fat...."I know I am but what are you?" 

Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall: Who has the jiggliest bits of all?

Looking in the mirror and liking what you see can be tough. We have all heard about magic mirrors growing up. Mirrors do have magical powers, too bad they are used against us. Mirrors have this splendid, magical, fantastical way of zeroing in on every insecurity that we have with our bodies.

You hate your stomach, you say? Oh, well let me magnify the fact that you gained ten pounds. Let's also not forget to show you that third fat roll forming. Oh, oh, not to mention, BAM, fat dimples everywhere!
Oh, your boobs not looking the way they used to, huh? Well, let's see, let's make it crystal clear that there is a grand canyon of space forming between them. Add that to the fact that they aren't as perky as they used to be. Hm, let's sprinkle some stretch marks in there. Feel terrible? Great, my work here is done.

Jiggly thighs getting you down? Hm, you seem to be pessimistic about this body part, let me help that by showering it with shadows! Lookie! There's a crater here, here, here and here. Hm, let's dump a boatload of cellulite over the affected area, that should make you feel right as rain.

Mirrors can be complete and total jerks. It is because of how my boobs and my thighs have looked in the mirror that has caused me to hate them over the years. When I would look at my boobs, all I could ever focus on was the fact that they looked nothing like what I had hoped they would. They didn't look like any I'd seen on a regular basis. They were saggy and sad, and that made sad.

I spent a lot of my time in the mirror examining them. I pushed them this way, that way, lifted them up, let them thunk down. I'd mash them and massage them and a lot of the time I'd just sit there and look at them. I would think about how great it would be if I was a witch. How cool would it be to wiggle my nose, or wave a wand and they would be the boobs I always envisioned? Or that I eas like Jeanie and I could cross my arms, blink and nod, and there you have it: perfect boobs. I spent so much time hating my body parts that it didn't dawn on me that I should love myself as is.

Getting to that point was a long struggle. One that, as many of you can guess, my partner helped me through. She has loved my chest ever since she first saw them. The first time we ever saw each others boobs is an admittedly funny story, involving a bathroom stall in a Japanese restaurant. That is a story for another day however. The point being, she made me feel better.

From admiring them within a bra and naked, from showing them some TLC, she made me realize that if she loved this piece of me so much, that there had to be something I was missing. So, I went back to the mirror, and I sat there gawking and for a long time I couldn't see what she saw. I tried to, but it was no use. But the love just kept coming, and coming, and coming.

There just had to be something that I was missing. Some piece of the ever complicated self love puzzle that was just beyond my grasp. So I kept going back to the mirror and eventually it clicked.

She just loved me.

That was all I had to do, to conquer the mirror. I had to love myself unapologetically. I had to look at my naked form in the mirror and not feel sorry about what I see, but to feel love and comfort in the person that I am. I conquered my first demon that day, and I haven't looked back since. 

However, my thighs and I are still locked into a love hate battle. Growing up, if you saw my mother's legs, you would understand my deep seated fascination with gorgeous legs. I would have killed for my mom's legs growing up. Fat, but slim, powerful, smooth. It was the smoothness of them that got me. I knew from a young age that I wanted smooth legs; just like mom.

What I got growing up.....not so much. My legs are chunky. My legs are fat. My legs are riddled with fat dimples and cellulite, and a little chub of fat hangs over my knee caps just slightly. My legs look like adult sized, chubby baby legs and it bothers the living hell out of me.

Once again, I was back into old habits and me and Mr.Self-Hate Mirror were back to being chummy pals. He would point out all the things wrong with my monstrous thighs, and he would laugh. Meanwhile, I felt like I was breaking inside. It wasn't fun. But I couldn't tear myself away from my magic mirror of flaws.

It's taken me a lot of honesty to admit that I still hate my thighs/legs as much as I do. It's taken a lot of power not to sneer at my reflection in the mirror. It has taken a lot of strengthen and courage to become okay with what I see when I look into that mirror each day. My thighs and I ate still on a journey, but I'm not going to walk down this road telling them how much I hate them along the way. Ultimately, they carry me down this road. I can get nowhere without their love and support.

My body is my temple and I should treat it as such. That means shattering the illusions that I see within my mirror each day. That means, waking up each and every day to a perfectly imperfect human being and learning to love that being.

My boobs are saggy. I have a fat stomach, my a** could stop traffic, and I hate my thighs. But I love me. I am unapologetically myself and that is something that a mirror can never take away from me again. If you had told me six years ago that I would have the confidence and the love for my body to post my naked legs online, in a blog post, for a blog that I created. I would have laughed in your face. But there they are, read'em and weep. My fat baby legs, uncovered and unashamed.

Will I hate them for a little while longer? Probably. Do I still love them, despite hating them? Yes. Your relationship with your body can be as complicated as any other relationship in your life. That doesn't mean that the love isn't there however. My legs are a piece of me, and I am pretty damn awesome.

Sorry not sorry: honor my curls, curves, cunt and cranium

As some of you may know from the blog's Facebook page:

I had a very interesting conversation today. I was told (just by the name of my blog alone) that it sounds like a Human being that has given up. The person who brought this to my attention was very nice, very genuine, and was just trying to offer a simple suggestion (a different name), by the end of it, I opened their eyes. That's all I've ever wanted from my blog. To open people's eyes, to explain how I view the world, and to make people feel good about themselves. I explained my blog name through my own eyes and I want to share that with you today:

I HAVE given up, that's the thing, something that, and I say this with much respect, but it is something that only plus sized women and men alike can truly understand. I have given up on seeing fat as an insult. I am tired and have given up on acting like it is the worst thing one human being can call another.Being called "fat" is not an insult, there are so many things worse than that: monster, bitch, pedophile, murderer, racist.

I feel, in my opinion, that "Overweight, but still beautiful," conforms to societies standards of what beautiful is. When I read that, it sounds so much like an apology. To a person like me it reads "I'm fat, but let me try to convince you that I'm still pretty."So again, I have given up. I have given up on constantly feeling the need to apologize for my existence. I have no reason to feel bad, feel sorry, or feel ashamed for being unapologetically myself.

So "f*ck it, I'm fat" and, your point is? Is the entire attitude behind my blog.

#effyourbeautystandards #unapologetic #sorrynotsorry

After posting that, the phrase "sorry not sorry" stayed stuck in my head. So, in light of my last post, I thought I'd tell the world some things that I'm NOT sorry for.

Curls

From a young age, my hair has been the topic of discussion. I have what has been referred to in my community for many years older than myself as "good hair." However, what people really mean to say when they sashay that sh#t pile of a "compliment" my way is that I don't have: "black hair", "nappy hair", and "thank God you have a white parent or else that sh#t would be a wreck hair." I have gotten this, pretty much my whole life since about age eight. My hair was the topic of envy and as a little kid that made me feel really, really bad. I couldn't control how my hair was, it was just kind of there. But so many people made a fuss about it.

I started to feel ashamed about my hair. People were constantly making assumptions about me based off the length and texture of my hair. I just had to be stuck up. I of course thought I was better than everyone. Everyone wanted to touch it, braid it, comb it, touch it, touch it, touch it, touch it, and I even had a few people threaten to cut it. As a precautionary measure, my teacher made sure to seat me around boys. This ensured that no hair obsessed eight year old would "Harriet the Spy" my a** and hack my hair off during a classroom movie.

I started wearing my hair pulled back in a ponytail from age eight to about, oh, 17. I tried to make my hair as unassuming and unthreatening as possible. It was difficult for me. I gave up my beads, berrettes, colored hair ties, and scrunchies of yore. I blended in, I cowered down, and I submitted to the masses. Talk of my hair, aside from people wanting to touch it, and complaining that I never wore it down, died down after that.

Cue the day almost two and a half years ago when I found out about the natural hair movement. My hair was in terrible, terrible shape back then. I was very self aware and self conscious of my hairline. My hair was falling out like crazy. I had so much fall out that I could collect the hair coming out in my brush, burrow a hole through the center and make a bracelet. Yes, you heard me, a bracelet of hair. It was horrible. My hair was weak, dry, brittle, heat damaged, chemically damaged from dye, frizzy, thinning, and I had more split ends than there are people in China. It was in a sad, sad state.

I attribute my current natural hair prowess and hair health to the wonderful information gathered from both CurlyKikki and KinkyCoilyMe respectively. To these two brilliant women, I owe a huge debt of gratitude. My hair would be nowhere near as healthy as it is now if I had not learned so much about hair from their pages.

Of course, when I went natural, I caught a fair amount of flack for it. Even my own girlfriend told me, once upon a time, that because of my hair type I couldn't go natural. Comments like this are something I briefly touched bases with on the Facebook page. I'll leave that link here for your viewing pleasure, but to recap:

A lot of people think that mulatto people such as myself cannot be natural. I have had so many people who either think:

1) think it is impossible

2) think that it is simple

Nothing is impossible nor is anything in this world simple. I have been natural for 2 years now and it has been an incredible journey. I have said goodbye to sulfates, good bye to heat tools (I flat iron my hair once, maybe twice a year). I said good bye to hairspray and other harsh products. I stopped brushing my hair while wet. I started deep conditioning and doing protein treatments, respectfully. I started sleeping with a bonnet or silky pillowcases. I started taking vitamins. I read, I gain knowledge, I experiment.
Overall I became more conscious of what I was doing to my hair. All the stress I was putting it under was doing a number to my mane, it was torture. My two biggest things that help me combat my hair issues are: coconut oil and egg. There are two great articles about that on the Facebook page, yanno, I'm just sayin'...

So, to anyone that has ever thought I couldn't go natural just because I'm mulatto and have "good hair" (cue epic eye roll) here: f*ck you, I can and I did. Sorry not sorry, boo.

Curves

There are so many factors that attribute to people being overweight, mine are due to a lot of emotional trauma at a young age, but that is the story that no one one the outside looking in wants to hear. It is far easier for them to imagine that my day consists of me sitting on the couch, stuffing my face 24/7, round the clock, but that isn't the case. With my blog, I am trying to be honestly, fiercely, unabashedly myself so that hopefully it gives others the strength to say "You don't know me and I'm done caring SO much if you like me. Your view of my own body should not validate my entire being."

I used to cope with my heartache by eating food. I felt worthless and alone, I wanted someone so bad to just hold my hand for one moment and tell me that everything was going to be okay. But no one ever did, and it just reiterates how unlovable, worthless and pathetic I was. So I ate, I ate and for a few brief moments everything was okay, until I stopped eating. When I stopped eating, I would feel horrible for overeatting. I would feel inflated, bloated, large and it reminded me that no one wants a fat girl. So I would feel like sh#t all over again and pick up a fork, a plate, anything to stuff those feelings down again.

It's something that would start, and start, and start, and start, and start, and start, and start, and never stop. Round and round, pound after pound, tear after tear, I ate my feelings to this body. I would try and fail to lose weight, starve myself, and when the weight wouldn't come off, I ate some more to make myself a numb, hollow husk of a spirit.

I spent years apologizing for my existence, for taking up space. For eleven years of my life I felt that my weight was the main, determinant factor in my right to live, to love and be loved. I was was an excuse that needed to be apologized for: everyday. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that I was unlovable, but I had to convince myself that I was pretty just long enough to nab me a lover so that I could spend the rest of my life apologizing for tricking them into choosing me.

What kind of life is that? I'll give you a hint. It isn't one. This blog is all about coming into your own and loving every single bit of yourself like you never thought you could. It's about looking in a mirror and not wanting to turn away, to not be ashamed. This blog is about being the you that you always thought you never could be.

If anyone takes issue with me wanting to spread that message? Sorry not sorry.

Cunt

I do not shy away from that word. It isn't a dirty word to me, never has been, never will be. I have mentioned Pussy Manifesto by Bitch before and I will directly quote her now:

"I am sick of my genitalia being used as an insult, aren't you?"

I love having a vagina. It is the one thing on my body that unequivocally makes me feel like a woman. Most people shy away or turn their nose up at statements such as this. But I'll proudly say it:

I love having a cunt. I love the way it feels and smells. Smells, every vagina on this earth is like a snowflake. No two smell the same. Growing up, I remember being ashamed of my vagina. Who wouldn't? I wasn't supposed to talk about it. I wasn't supposed to touch it. Thanks to those two things alone, I didn't even comprehend until an embarrassing age (12) that you were supposed to actually wash the damn thing. I just kind of....let water run over it for lack of anything better to do.

My period made me hate being a woman.

Discharge in my panties made me feel like a freak of nature.

The scent of it made me feel filthy.

I spent a large portion of my life hating my own vagina.

It took me a lot of online articles, a lot of chats with friends online, and a lot of orgasms for me to realize: "Holy f*ck, my pussy rocks!"

So, I wear my cunt on my sleeves...Sorry not sorry.

Cranium

Since this is a body positivity blog, I talk a lot about my physical body, duh. However, I would like to point out, that there is more to me than that. I (obviously) am a writer. My love for writing has surpassed any memory lodged in my head I don't know when it started anymore, it has just always been a part of me. I love crafting an intricate web of a story, to draw people in and trap them. I love creating this cozy little world where it is just my voice in someone's head. I love the invisible connection that I feel.

Growing up, I was always made to be an outcast because of my bookworm-ish qualities. I spent a lot of my time reading as a kid. It was a way for me, outside of food, to escape my own reality. I couldn't have love and acceptance in my own life, but books always had tales of it to spare. It made me feel close to the world despite my physical distance from it. I was reading books like Lord of the Rings by the time I was on fifth grade. I wanted to absorb all that I could.

I'm still trying to absorb all that I can. I'm not the best writer, but I'm always willing to learn. I'm always willing to know what I did wrong so that my skills can grow and flourish. I may have a stack of rejection letters but hell, at least I tried. And for that? Yup, you guessed it, sorry not sorry.

Photographer: Michael Warner

MUA: myself